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The Barn 

The Barn
is settling.

                Body splayed,
exposure and rot
cushion its slide
                into mulch.

A gaping hole
along the western face
of the roof, bleeds
ragged
like an exit wound.

Whole pieces of sky
make their way
inside
                whistling
                and burning…

On grey days,
I hear a lowing,
                the groan of wood
                bending,

the slow sigh
of decomposition.
               
Goats,
undisturbed,
                perch
                on cut-outs of hard-packed dirt
                that extend from trails
lengthening
along the open cheek of the hill
like scars.

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Catherine Munsee

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